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He’s a charmer. He’s brilliant. He’s amazing in whatever he does. He knows his place; when to behave and when to play. He’s socially interesting but he knows exactly when to stop talking and who not to approach. He hates everyone on his low days, but he knows how to love, also on the same low days. He’s supportive despite not having the same head in things. He’s quite a talker but he also listens. And most of all, he is the most patient person she knows.

Throughout the years, he’s been including her in everything, even stuffs that have nothing to do with her at all. He’s open. He shows her everything. He is never shy about what he does, not caring that sometimes it’s pretty laughable. He’s confident. And all these are what she’s not.

She’s a closed-off. She likes to do things on her own. Quietly and hidden. She gradually opens up to him but there’s still thing she likes to keep to herself. He never pushes her to put down all of her cards, but she knows if she never fully open to him like he did to her, in one sense, she’s not wholly his. And wholly hisis what she wants to be.

“I want to show you something.” She decides randomly after he patiently waited for her to be done with her thing. Thing that she never includes him—or anyone—in.

He smiles; smiles like he didn’t just waste about half an hour waiting for her doing something that he never get to discover. “What is it?”

“My paintings.”

His face twitches. He’s no longer smiling but his shocked expression is almost comical. It’s not offending because after all, she’s the one who trained him not to ask and not to see. He, being as amazing as he is, respects her boundary and gives her the utmost privacy at that. Although she knows, it’s frustrated him sometimes because painting is a big thing for her, yet she never shows him any.

“You don’t have to show me.”

“I want to.”

His sharp intake is not lost on her. His face beams in a matter of seconds.

She hides her smile by looking down to her shoes. She takes his hand and drags him into her sanctuary. Her private studio. “Come.”

She opens the lock. Nervously, she steps in and he follows. This is the first time someone walks in and seeing everything she hid in here. It’s not that she’s not confident with her works. What she’s not confident with is to explain. Not everything is making sense to the eye, much less the backstory.

She watches him taking in everything. He walks slowly around, standing and staring for a while at some paintings, maybe trying to make sense of them, but he never frowns. He smiles. And by the end of his circuit, he turns to her and smiles wider. So wide he’s practically laughing. Except he’s not.

“You’re amazing.” He says, pride laces in every syllable.

He’s about eight steps away from her and she wants to run each one and kiss him senseless. “I’m not. You are.” He is. He’s unbelievable. Out of this world. He’s unexplainable but that is because she would take years until she finishes gloating about him.

And if anything makes sense in here, it’s him.

“Explain to me.”

This is the tough part. But she smiles through it. “Well, I can’t explain everything. Choose one.”

He immediately turns and points to a painting of a woman—it doesn’t straight out looks like a woman, but she’s the painter so she knows—with dead eyes and around her are patches of light brown and orange mess. She outlined it with blue. “I did this few years ago. Before we are together.”

“She looks sad.”

“No. Not at all.She was . . . plain. People explained dull with grey, but my dull is pastel. It’s a pallet of hopes.”

“Is this speaking for you?”

“Everything is speaking for me.”

He takes another quick swipe. She knows what he wants to ask but not knowing how to. So, she explains. “You see, there’s a wall of dark colors, there’s a wall of pastels, there’s a wall of striking and bright colors. It’s a transition.” He stares at her and she walks closer to him. “You see, the dark paintings make the most no sense. They were my paintings before I met you.” He frowns at the left wall, and the dark paintings almost look gory if one stares too long.

“The dull paintings are before we are together. My life never made sense before I met you and that was the stage I started to regroup myself and I . . . I don’t know. It’s not self-depreciating but watching you, knowing you, made me realized how . . . boring I was as a person, and life in general.”

He takes a step behind her, curling his arms around her waist and pulls her into his embrace. Together, they turn to the spunky looking wall. “After we started dating, my life is divided into pre-you and post-you. That,” She waves her hand to the paintings full of pinks, baby blues and colors of rainbow. “Is post-you. You inspired all those.”

He gives her cheek a lingering kiss and she can feel his smile against her skin.

“I have a lot more of those. The wall is not big enough for all.”

“You’re amazing.”

“You said that already.”

“I will say it until you believe it. And after that, I’m still going to say it until you’re annoyed and dump me.”

She laughs. “There’s no way I would dump you.” She turns in his embrace, cupping his cheeks. “You are all the colors. Even the black, but the good one. If you leave me, you’re taking all the colors and all I have will be a blank wall.”

He brushes strands of hair by her cheek. “There’s no way I would leave you after you show me all these. I may looked casual about it, but I prayed to all kind of God, that someday, you’ll let me in and show me the last piece of you.”

This. This is why he’s all the colors. This is why she would never finish gloating about him. This is why he’s the only thing who makes sense.

The only regret she has is the time she takes before opening up to him. He didn’t deserve all the waiting.

“Yours.”

He smiles the brightest smile, blinding enough to conceal the dark and the dull. “Mine.”